


Consecuencia

by aguantare



Series: Sin Fronteras [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 02:02:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9268835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: Leo would like to think that he’s been an immigration attorney long enough to be able to take that desperate, desolate look in stride. Then again, this is the first time he’s ever seen it on the face of someone who’s more than just a client, here in the visitation area of one of California’s many detention centers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of immigration work happens at the intersection of criminal law and immigration law. For people who are detained, it's just that much harder to fight their case. It's easy to relegate immigrants who have criminal records to the "Bad" category, but if we don't fight for the "least" of us, then we cannot claim to uphold even a semblance of a just system.
> 
> Also, I blame [ayvamos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ayvamos) for the fact that Aguero somehow ended up in my writing. 
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me.

“What the hell, Kun.”

As soon as the words are out of Leo’s mouth, he regrets them. On the other side of a pane of ostensibly bulletproof glass, Kun is slumped over, head in his hands. There are shackles on his wrists, and he’s dressed in an orange jumpsuit. 

“I didn’t know, man,” Kun says after a few seconds, his voice muffled through the glass, “I didn’t know Marcos had, you know, _drogas_ in the car.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, when doesn’t Marcos have them?” Leo not-quite shouts, “Were you driving through Beverly Hills or some shit too?”

“…maybe.”

Leo grabs at the back of his head in exasperation, turns away from the glass. He takes a few deep breaths before turning back around. Kun is still slumped over, not looking at him. 

“Hey.” If they weren’t separated like this, Leo would accompany the single word with a nudge of fingers against Kun’s arm to get his attention. Instead though, Leo has to settle for tapping a knuckle against the glass. 

Kun stays slumped over for a second or two more, then finally raises his head, sets his chin in one hand. There are bags under his eyes, deep furrows in his brow, tension lines across his jaw. Leo would like to think that he’s been an immigration attorney long enough to be able to take that desperate, desolate look in stride. 

Then again, this is the first time he’s ever seen it on the face of someone who’s more than just a client, here in the visitation area of one of California’s many detention centers. 

“You know I can’t be your lawyer,” he says, crouching down so he can be at Kun’s eye level. There aren’t any chairs on this side of the visitation space. Someday, Leo’s going to pick a fight with the jail about that. 

“Yeah,” Kun replies, looking down, “Conflict of interest, right?”

Leo tamps down the urge to yell at Kun again for being smart enough to remember the conversation they had the last time they were here, in this very same room, but not being smart enough to avoid doing the exact same thing that landed him in here before. 

“Yeah.” Leo considers himself a pretty good lawyer, but he doesn’t trust himself to be neutral and objective, especially when it comes to Kun, and Marcos. Too many memories of sitting in the backs of pick-up trucks and on top of boxcars together, watching the Mexican landscape slide by in endless panorama, sharing water and food and a plastic tarp to shield them against the rain (sky blue, Leo remembers, “for Argentina,” Marcos had said with a grin). Ten years of life in the States has done nothing to dull those memories. 

“I’ll talk to Gonzalo,” Leo adds. Pipa took Kun’s case last time, went to war for him in front of one of the toughest immigration judges in the entire region, and won. Leo wonders if he’ll be able to do it again, wonders if he’ll even be willing to try. 

Doesn’t know what he’ll do if he can’t. Or won’t.

The guard looms large behind Kun, makes a hand signal that Leo takes to mean their time is up. Kun gets to his feet, turns to go. Leo feels like he should say something, but he doesn’t know what. 

As he leaves, he walks by one of the family visitation rooms, the separate ones with a door that are at least nominally private. Through the closed door, he can hear a child crying inconsolably. 

Outwardly, he knows he appears calm. Inside, though, he feels like doing the same.


End file.
